Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  He silently paced around ropes, buckets and sleeping men, making his way to a bulging sack of envelopes. Cursing under his breath as he rifled through the mountain of letters, squinting as he read each address by starlight, Westlake restrained a whoop of triumph as he found the letter he was looking for.

  Back in his cabin, lantern-light spilling over the wooden desk laden with dried plants and empty bottles of whisky, he pored over the envelope. With a gesture that by now had become second-nature, Westlake casually held the letter over the steaming pot of water he kept on heated bricks.

  The envelope, curling in the steam, opened with a soft rustle. Westlake, gently opening the folded letter that lay within, read the words with rapt, hungry concentration.

  My dearest Lydia,

  I have sent copies of this letter to every port along the Irish coast, in the hope that your charming little ship will stop to shelter in at least one of them…

  Westlake read through to the end, immediately rereading. When he came to the end of his second reading, he allowed his thumb to briefly caress the dark, boldly-written signature.

  Your Henrietta.

  ‘Your Henrietta.’ He murmured the words, rolling his eyes, before saying something unprintable.

  Six months! He’d had six months to forget Henrietta Hereford; six months of fierce, swashbuckling adventures in tropical climes, seemingly designed to make a man think of anything but rain-spattered English women. As if that wasn’t enough, The Valiant had docked near enough brothels on its return journey to make Richard Westlake the most famous man on the Continent, if he so chose… but he hadn’t chosen, and wasn’t choosing, and might never choose again if he couldn’t stop thinking about the damn Hereford girl.

  Secretly reading all of her letters to her sister probably wasn’t helping. Richard had originally begun reading them as a form of harsh medicine; there had to be something about the girl that he wouldn’t like upon closer inspection, especially if Henrietta was unguardedly speaking to her elder sister Lydia. Unfortunately, after handfuls and handfuls of carefully steamed-open envelopes and sleepless nights of reading, Richard had only discovered things about Henrietta Hereford that made her more fascinating than ever.

  He could reel off each and every beguiling thing about her, like a sea shanty; he had even tried it once, lying dreamily in his hammock after half a bottle of whisky, and had fallen asleep after the forty-seventh fact. Henrietta Hereford could write and speak in seven languages, including two that Richard had never heard of. Henrietta Hereford was a crack shot, handy with a fencing foil, and had once commandeered a mare after she had proven too jumpy for the young man attempting to ride her. Henrietta Hereford smoked cigars when no-one was looking, Henrietta Hereford spent whole nights reading in the Longwater Library, Henrietta Hereford wished to live in a bohemian fashion, Henrietta Hereford, Henrietta Hereford, Henrietta Hereford…

  In his right mind, he would avoid a girl like Henrietta Hereford as if she were a plague carrier. Richard would have laughed soundly at any of his friends admitting such a rush of feeling for a woman so determined to be bookish, plain, antagonistic… and now, as if the universe had decided to play the worst kind of trick, he found himself in just such a position.

  No-one could accuse him of mooning over the girl in public. Richard had made extremely sure that Henrietta’s name never passed his lips; when Lydia Hereford had spoken of her sisters, as was only natural, he had responded with the minimum of polite interest. It had been difficult; Lydia spoke often of her sisters, and enjoyed talking more than seemingly any other activity… but God help him, Richard had managed it.

  Had managed, in fact, until the captain had informed him that England was no more than three days away. Ever since that moment, knowing that Henrietta lay three long nights away, Richard had found himself all but crushed under the strength of his obsession.

  ‘Hardly my fault.’ He muttered it fiercely to himself, reaching for the only bottle of whisky on the desk that still had a trace of amber liquid in it. Knocking it back, by now so used to the flavour that he didn’t even wince, Richard threw the letter to the desk with a growl.

  It wasn’t his fault. No court would convict him. What red-blooded male of any standing would fail to be obsessed with Henrietta Hereford, after undergoing what had to be the most perverse form of torture at her hands that any man had ever undergone? She had followed him to his bedroom, sent him flying onto his bed, tied him with garden twine at his wrists and ankles… forced him to make promises that he certainly hadn’t intended to keep, concerning her sister Lydia’s marriage… Lord, she had even taken her hair down…

  With a dark, angry sigh, Richard threw himself onto his narrow bunk as the ship rocked gently beneath him. Hands drifting to his breeches, searching for a relief he hadn’t managed to attain despite six months of trying, he gripped himself tight as the Longwater bedroom swam back into his thoughts.

  She hadn’t even done anything. That was the most infuriating part; the part that had him practically sniffing the air for her, like a hound hunting a fox. She had trapped him, tied him, let down that glorious hair, made him give his word that Lydia would be allowed to marry Andrew Balfour and accompany him on the voyage… and almost, almost, kissed the lobe of his ear.

  She had left the room laughing. That laugh plagued Richard, giving spice to his nightly ministrations.

  As his fingers stroked along his shaft, his touch more punishing than playful, he allowed himself to think of the future. To think of a week hence, to be precise; the day the Herefords, on their palatial estate at Longwater, would be giving Lydia, Andrew and himself a ball to welcome them home. A ball to celebrate everything worth celebrating; Lydia and Andrew’s safe return, the voyage’s successful transport of a great number of rare plants, the fattened bank accounts of any number of careful speculators…

  … He would see Henrietta Hereford again. He would, if he had any say in the matter, be taking the night of pleasure that she owed him.

  He stroked himself harder, merciless, giving himself over to fantasy. Giving himself over to the teasing, obscene imaginings that had dogged his heels ever since they had left port at Bristol, Henrietta’s dark figure in the waving crowd.

  I will find you. I will have you. Then, God willing, I won’t want you anymore.

  A considerable distance away from The Valiant, deep in the heart of England’s most bucolic county, Henrietta Hereford was having an evening that was somewhat more sedate. Not because her actions were less brilliant or daring that those of Lord Westlake—she was simply the type of woman who ran her own heart, rather than letting it ride roughshod over every single feeling.

  By now she had managed to carve out a small but definite space for herself in the Longwater library; a desk, a chair, and a well-selected pile of books whose subjects seemed to be chosen at random to the untrained eye. She sat there as the moon rose, poring intently over the scrawled notes she had already made, taking the time to painstakingly correct any errors she discovered in the tomes she had taken to study. Every so often she turned to a small folio she kept in her desk drawer, furtively writing the titles of books she would need to convince her brother-in-law to buy.

  Women were not allowed to attend university. Henrietta knew this, even if the knowledge made her want to spit with anger. She also knew, despite her clear aptitude and talent as a scholar, that she would not be the first woman allowed to attend a university. That honour would no doubt be saved for a pioneering nurse, or a theologian—and Henrietta, who disliked sickness and was rather bored of God, nevertheless knew that her academic interests were considered less important.

  So, in the absence of external revolution, she had created an internal one. Her self-designed course of study, taking in geography, ancient languages, archaeology, unusual religions and a smattering of physical arts, was at least twice as rigorous as any reading list pursued by a bored Oxford undergraduate. Ever since she and her sisters had arrived at the Longwater estate almost two
years previously, Henrietta had gathered vast amounts of knowledge pertaining to the world beyond the British Isles; how people spoke, ate, slept, prayed and fought, and even buried their dead… and, thanks to her sister Lydia’s impetuous decision to follow Andrew Balfour to distant, tropical climes on a plant-hunting expedition, Henrietta had added botany to her ever-growing list of subjects.

  It meant that she had less time for other pursuits; namely afternoon teas, shopping in Bath, and taking small but vicious revenge on the young bucks of the ton who thought they could treat women in the same manner as cattle, or old vegetable peelings. The last man who had truly deserved it had been Hobbley—really, such conduct against any woman was unconscionable, but especially a young ballerina from Shropshire who thought the man had intended to marry her. Henrietta hadn’t exactly taken pleasure in adjusting the balance of things, but… it had been rather satisfying, seeing him try to hide the scar on his hand in public.

  She didn’t own a knife. No clever woman needed to own a knife. A clever woman had been overheard describing what had happened to the young ballerina, and then slightly less clever men had taken it upon themselves to do the rest.

  With a slightly wistful sigh, Henrietta realised that she was beginning to sink into reverie instead of doing any useful work. She tidied her notes with pedantic neatness, plumping the cushion that sat on her chair, before reaching with a small smile into the other desk drawer.

  She withdrew a bundle of letters, wrapped in blue ribbon. Taking out a crumpled piece of paper from the drawer, one seemingly designed to be overlooked, Henrietta held her pencil aloft as she read her way down her list.

  Song he sings most—woman in blue gown

  Seems to enjoy night-scented flowers

  Had a magpie? Has a magpie? Keeps a feather in his cabin?

  Doesn’t sleep

  ‘Doesn’t sleep.’ Henrietta murmured the words to herself. ‘Why the devil doesn’t he sleep?’

  She didn’t know why the last point was important. Of all the things to know about Richard Westlake, the baron responsible for Lydia and Andrew’s sojourn in the tropics, the fact that he didn’t sleep was of no use to her whatsoever. Still, with the confidence of youth, Henrietta assumed it would come in handy one day.

  She knew, when she was doing other things, that approaching the seduction of Lord Westlake as if it were a scholarly experiment was so foolish that it came close to madness. There was no logic for doing so; there were plenty of gentlemen much closer to Longwater who would make similarly fine subjects. Henrietta never intended to marry, that much was true—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t conduct her own amorous explorations in utmost secrecy, with gentlemen deemed suitable. Quite why she had deemed Lord Westlake suitable, however… well, there was no real reason for it.

  Apart from the way he looked, of course. Apart from the way he had looked at her, tied up and raging in the Longwater guest bedroom, and told her in no uncertain terms that she would be his… and the way she had replied to him, so very unlike her normal self…

  He would return within the week. Henrietta knew that a ball was the perfect place to begin a seduction, if not actively indulge in it. Ladies normally had to attempt a sort of universal appeal in their dress and manner; any gentlemen was a good prospect, and so they intended to attract as many gentlemen as possible. Henrietta, fortunately, only had to attract one—and thanks to her sister Lydia’s splendid recreations of life on board ship, not to mention on the Neerhoven Isles, she had amassed a slim but important list of things about Lord Westlake that she could use to her advantage.

  It was foolish. It was, very possibly, mad. But Henrietta liked to win things, even foolish, mad things, and intended to handily win Lord Westlake with little more than a gown and a snatch of song.

  What she would do with him afterwards, she wasn’t sure. Discard him, presumably—if he didn’t discard her first. Perhaps that was the reason she had chosen him, underneath it all; he was famously inconstant, from what Henrietta had gleaned from Lydia’s letters, and wasn’t likely to pursue her with unwanted proposals of marriage.

  Yes. Seduction. Henrietta smiled, opening Lydia’s most recent letter. Simple, really.

  A ball. Of course his first real opportunity to converse with Henrietta Hereford would be in a place full of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Richard fought the urge to growl, half-heartedly tugging at his tailcoat as he made his way into the glittering Longwater ballroom.

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t visited Longwater over the preceding week. He had visited several times—on more occasions than were strictly warranted, if he were being honest with himself. Yes, he had needed to oversee delivery of the unusual tropical plant specimens; yes, he had needed to discuss their care and feeding to an exhausting level of detail with Susan Colborne, who now knew more about rare succulents and mosses than any English gardener. But had he really needed to drift in a disconsolate fashion around the edges of the Longwater gardens, avoiding the slightly suspicious looks of Isaac the gardener, wondering why the only Hereford sisters he managed to converse with were the married one, the other married one, and the one who never seemed to speak a word?

  He hadn’t even been able to ask where Henrietta was. It had seemed churlish to ask; Anne Colborne was beaming and gracious, Lydia Balfour was full of humorous anecdotes about their time spent on the islands together, and Agnes Hereford… well, she had never managed to ask him a direct question without blushing, and Richard didn’t wish to inconvenience her with speech.

  Still. She would be here tonight, yes? She couldn’t possibly avoid it… could she? Richard wondered for a short, agonising moment if some romantic scandal had her removed from polite society, before deciding that Henry Colborne, an old friend and happily reformed rake, would probably have informed him for gossip’s sake.

  He took a deep breath. Balls were normally his favourite hunting grounds; there were certainly women here who had previously enjoyed his favours. Some of them were smiling, an excited murmur thrilling through the room as he entered… but oh, for God’s sake, the one face he wanted to see was absent.

  ‘Lord Westlake.’ Anne Colborne came to him, smiling, one hand gently held to her growing waistline. Richard couldn’t help but smile in response as he bowed; how strange, that Henry would soon have children. ‘As always, a tremendous pleasure. We have seen so much of you at Longwater over the past week—please know that it is never quite enough.’

  ‘You are too kind.’ Richard nodded as Henry approached, with a violently blushing Agnes in tow. ‘I doubt there will be room for me, with the crowd gathered here tonight.’

  ‘Oh, they will leave when I begin to shoo them. They are still horrified that a former rake takes such evident pleasure in domesticity—if I pick up a broom, they will flee like little mice.’ Henry placed a protective arm around his wife; Richard watched their small moment of intimacy, an alien touch of jealousy shivering through him. ‘Shall I make them flee, my dear?’

  ‘Oh, no. I have forced Agnes to be courageous—she must stay in the room for at least one hour, and accept three dances.’ She looked with stern tenderness at Agnes, who managed to roll her eyes in a remarkably cool fashion despite the fiery crimson in her cheeks. ‘Lydia is already holding court by the card tables, describing to all and sundry the wonderful fish with wings that you all saw fluttering over the waves one morning in summer… oh, and Henrietta has a new dress. One can never quite tell with her, but she seems rather proud of it. I’m beginning to believe that she needs a little excitement, after spending so much of the past week with her nose buried in books.’

  Richard swallowed reflexively as he heard her name; the name. He tried to think of a suitable reply; something that wasn’t taking an expecting Anne Colborne by the shoulders, shaking her soundly, and demanding the know the whereabouts of her bewitching sister…

  ‘Ah!’ Anne looked over his shoulder, smiling. ‘There she is now.’

  Richard turned. His knees threatened to buckle;
he kept himself taut, stiff as a freshly-drawn sword, fighting the urge to swear both soundly and thoroughly as he took in the sight of Henrietta Hereford.

  It wasn’t just blue, her gown. It shone; shone with the rich, dizzying blue of a summer’s twilight on the starboard bow of The Valiant, the time when all things seemed infinitely possible. A shanty Richard knew came irresistibly to mind; the one about the lady in the blue gown, with the devil following after…

  If he were allowed to follow Henrietta, he would be worse than the devil. Richard, staring at the dark-haired, smooth-skinned vision that had haunted him for more long months than he could count, knew that the devil would have a hard time keeping up with the sheer quantity and depravity of his thoughts.

  He stared, silently willing Henrietta to meet his eyes. To acknowledge him; to walk towards him, and him alone. But as Henrietta slowly circled the room, seemingly taking time to speak at length with every person who greeted her, Richard felt an irritation that threatened to vanquish him utterly.

  By the time she finally reached him, Anne and Agnes had turned to greet other guests. Richard quickly bowed, attempting to control his expression as he rose to meet her.

  ‘Miss Hereford.’ He fought the urge to bow again; she had such a regal quality to her. ‘I have returned your sister to the Longwater flock.’

  ‘Indeed you have, my lord. My deepest thanks.’ Henrietta’s voice was faintly bored; Richard knew, without a doubt, that it was a pretence. Her eyes spoke volumes, even if her mouth said very little. ‘She has spoken very highly of your… heroics.’

  ‘Hardly heroics. Although the amount of rum I drank—that was fairly noble.’ Richard saw Henrietta’s eyes flicker; the scandalous nature of his words had unsettled her. ‘And as for the dances…’